Grimm - The Icy Touch (8 page)

This is wrong.

They were his friends, Nick even more so than Smitty. But his loyalty to Smitty was paramount just now. Smitty had been a fellow Blutbad in recovery who’d died—at least from Monroe’s point of view—for ordinary humanity. He’d died for refusing to revert to Blutbad predation. Because when Blutbaden tried not to be predators, they did it partly to protect human beings. Of course—they also did it to protect themselves
from
human beings; from being hunted in retaliation... And they did it to escape the notice of Grimms, of course.

Why were Nick and Hank waving to that Coast Guard boat? He could see the gleam in Nick’s badge in his hand. It was coming over to them...

Monroe waited, and watched.

Shouldn’t be doing this...Nick’s gonna be mad...

But Monroe
had
to know what was going down. Who, exactly, was behind Smitty’s death. If he found out who they were, maybe he could get in touch with the Verrat, the Royals,
someone
who could rein these bastards in. Or maybe he could get the Wesen who’d torn Smitty to pieces himself. Get the scumbag alone. Take him down.

He’d sworn no more predation against animals or people.

But against a Wesen murderer... that was a death he could live with.

What would Rosalee say, if she knew what he was thinking? What would Nick say, for that matter.
This is nuts...

But still Monroe waited, and watched.

Nick led the way, gun in one hand, Hank’s flashlight in the other.

“You know,” Hank whispered, as they waded quietly up the culvert, into ever deeper darkness, “I used to work in Vice, busting crack heads and tweakers. They’d be outta their damn minds every single time. Never knew what they were going to do. Some of ’em bit you when you arrested ’em.”

“So I’ve heard,” Nick replied. They’d gone about fifty yards into the culvert, after using a Coastie’s crowbar to break the lock on the gate. Now and then something other than their boots splashed in the darkness. Rats, Nick guessed.

“Yeah. Twice I had to get antibiotics and tetanus shots, from crackhead bites. But you know what, that’s starting to sound pretty good to me right now. I never had to wade up a stinking culvert, stepping on rats, looking for...”

“Shhh...” Nick stopped, aiming the light on the curved cement wall to their left. There was a dark place there, oblong, rough-edged. In a barely audible mutter, Nick added, “Might have our Drang-zorn tunnel...”

Nick moved toward the tunnel, trying not to slosh too loudly—it was difficult in hip waders on a curved, slime-slick surface, to keep from slipping and making a lot of noise.

Yes. A side tunnel.

It was cut into the wall—broken through, really—just above the water level. The tunnel beyond was formed of packed clay and rock, with characteristic Drang-zorn marks. They’d evidently found some other badger people to dig for them. Maybe the Daemonfeuer had scared them into it.

Nick moved up to the side of the tunnel, leaned out to look without showing too much of himself. He angled the light down and peered along the tunnel, hoping to see someone, or something, that might give him a clue what he and Hank were getting into.

“Let’s just do this, at least then we’ll be out of this rat waterpark,” Hank said.

Nick holstered his gun, and climbed up into the tunnel, keeping the light angled down. Hank climbed after him. Nick created a pool of light so they could see what they were standing on then, hunched over a little beneath the dirt ceiling, they moved off down the tunnel. It smelled of clay and worms and wet rock.

Near as Nick could tell they were moving along at a sharp angle from the culvert, heading for Old Town Portland.

After an indeterminate distance, Hank whispered, “That flashlight goes out, I’m gonna light your hair on fire, so I can see my way. I don’t like rats. Did I mention that?”

“I inferred it.”

“That look like light up ahead to you?”

“Yeah...”

Another forty steps and they came to a wooden door, loosely fitted in a brick frame. A little light showed around the edges.

“Got a locked chain on it,” Nick said, inspecting it with the flashlight. “You didn’t bring the crowbar?”

“Wasn’t our crowbar. But you know what, I didn’t come all this way to stop here. Let me get out of these damned waders...”

They both discarded their waders. Then Hank looked at the door, searching for the right spot. He took a step back.

“You hear someone yelling for help, right?” he asked.

Nick put his hand to his ear, made a great show of pretending to hear something.

“Definitely.”

“Okay then.”

Hank gave the door his best kick-boxing slam, hitting it right by the chain. The frame shattered with a sharp
crack
and the door teetered inward.

“So much for surprising anyone,” Nick said, putting the flashlight away and drawing his Glock.

But the door opened to reveal another empty tunnel. This one was made of brick, stone, and old timbers. The light came from electric lanterns which hung from the ceiling. Water dripped, hissing as it fell onto the lamps.

“Smells like river water,” Nick said. “Must be right up close to it.”

“Shanghai tunnels,” Hank said.

“Yeah, they connected the culvert to their own tunnel and hooked that one up to one of the old underground tunnels,” Nick murmured, looking around. Given the noise they had made breaking down the door, he was fully expecting any second some woged Wesen to come snarling around the curve up ahead, fangs bared and claws slashing. But he heard nothing apart from a faint hissing, and sizzling.

“I thought there were people going on tours down in these things...” Hank said.

Nick nodded. “I heard the tours were shut down because of some structural problem. Which maybe they faked up so they could use them.”

They started down the tunnel toward Old Town, Nick ahead, Hank close behind him.

“They really Shanghai sailors in these things? Smuggle heroin, all that?” Hank asked.

“I think the tunnels were supposed to be for moving freight from the docks to the old-timey shops, without having to get past all the wagons and traffic. But they found other uses for ’em. Knocking sailors out, dragging them through a tunnel to a ship they didn’t want to ship out on...”

Another fifty paces, they came to a corner... and Nick stopped in his tracks.

Someone was behind them.

Nick spun round, signaling to Hank for silence, and listened. There was a squelching sound behind them, like wet, hesitant footsteps.

Nick eased back, waiting at the corner, his back against the dirt wall by the turn, gun raised. Hank was about three paces past, waiting silently, gun aimed at the bend in the tunnel.

Monroe stepped around the corner—and froze, seeing Hank.

“Oh. Hi, Hank. Um...you like to come down here too, huh?” Then he sniffed the air, turned and looked at Nick. “Well, well. Nick. There you are. Uh...”

“You just ‘like to come down here’?” Nick said, lowering his gun. He pointed at Monroe’s soaking pants legs and shoes. “And you like wading around in your best loafers, I see.”

Monroe looked at his feet. “Oh, yeah. That’s probably what you heard. Damned shoes were so loud with the water in them.”

“Why are you following us, Monroe?” Hank asked softly, walking up to him, gun now at his side.

“Because—I feel responsible. I mean, not directly but... you know, Smitty was my friend and I just feel like I should be in on this. Not in on it like, I’m a cop, I know, but maybe an advisor, civilian advisor, or...”

“Or pain in the ass?” Hank suggested.

“Hey, I’m gonna be a help, I promise, I just need to know what’s going on with this thing, you know, as much as you can tell me, which should be, I’d hope, a lot, because—”

“Monroe? Keep your voice down,” Nick told him. “Since you’re here, let’s see if you can make yourself useful. Come on. Stay behind Hank and keep as quiet as you can.”

Nick started off down the tunnel again, Hank and Monroe following...

Squelch, squelch, squelch.

Nick threw Monroe a look of irritation.

“Sorry!” he whispered. “They’re wet... Hold on... screw it...” He rolled his pants legs up, and quickly pulled off his shoes and socks. “Always feels better to me anyway.”

Nick nodded, and they continued on their way.

Another thirty paces... and voices reached their ears.

Nick could smell Wesen; could
feel
them nearby, a kind of subtle electric tension in his jaw and forehead. He could feel his Grimm side coming alert: colors and shapes suddenly seemed more vivid, and smells more potent.

Nick looked at Hank. Hank nodded and drew his 9 mm automatic.

They crept forward, quickly reaching another bend in the tunnel. Nick peeked around the corner.

Three Wesen stood in a small chamber, little more than a widening of the corridor, around a half-size fiberglass pallet stacked with pound-sized bricks of yellow-white powder. A “Lift’n Buddy” electric hand truck stood against the wall. Leaning beside that was a woged Blutbad, in black T-shirt and jeans, growling to itself, its furred arms folded on its chest. A submachine gun on a strap hung over one of its shoulders.

The other two figures were just finishing stacking powder bricks on the palette. They appeared human—but using his Grimm sight, Nick could see they weren’t. One of them, short, thick, and blunt featured, was a Drang-zorn. The other was bigger, scowling... probably a Hasslich.

Nick drew back, and pulled out his cell phone. Perhaps if the Icy Touch thugs were surrounded by uniformed officers, they’d revert to human appearance and come along quietly. Maybe. But his cell phone had no signal. Figured, this far underground. Nick sighed, shook his head at the others, and put the phone away.

They’d have to come up with something else—maybe a decoy, someone to distract them while he and Hank got the drop... Since Monroe was here, he might as well be useful.

Nick turned to Monroe, signaled with a finger on his lips for silence, and tried to mime what he wanted Monroe to do—as if he were playing charades. He acted out a woge, miming turning visibly Wesen, making fangs with two fingers at Monroe. Aware, as he did this, that despite the danger, Hank was covering his mouth to keep from laughing. Monroe just gaped at him in puzzlement, and then started to speak. Nick quickly put a hand over Monroe’s mouth and shook his head. Then he enacted the woge again, pointed toward the Wesen guards... and Monroe’s eyes lit up.

Monroe nodded, closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating—and then became, visibly, a Blutbad, sprouting fur, fangs, his eyes becoming feral. And not a moment too soon.

A gruff voice spoke from around the corner.

“I smell someone—visitors. You guys getting that scent? Someone close...”

“Yeah, that’d be me, fellas,” Monroe said, chattering as he stepped out into view. His voice was altered, made more guttural by the transformation. “Ha, shoulda taken a shower this morning. Got all kinda smells on me, from, uh, fighting humans, and... you know how it goes. I guess I shoulda called ahead. But, hey, no cell phone service down here.”

“Who the hell are you?” asked the gruff voice.

“Boss sent me to tell you guys the stuff here’s going to be picked up sooner’n planned. The other guys are coming pretty quick to get it...”

“We were told we’d be standing guard for a few hours. Only been an hour.”

“Sure, that’s why I’m here...”

“I don’t remember you from the meetings,” the gruff voice went on.

“You don’t remember this?”

Nick looked around the corner in time to see Monroe grab the submachine gun hanging on the Blutbad’s shoulder. He broke the snap, but, before he could turn it against the Icy Touch Wesen, the guard had lunged at him, knocking him back...

Nick and Hank darted around the corner, guns in hand.

“Police!” Nick shouted. “Get down on the ground!”

Only the Drang-zorn obeyed. Near the Drang-zorn, in mere seconds, the other man transformed, a full-on woge into Hasslich: his ears went pointier, tufted; his face became chiseled and gaunt; his eyes turned red, pupils slitting; his teeth became serrated as a saw blade; and fingers extended claws, muscles stretched, ripping his clothes.

The Wesen troll charged at Hank.

Nick ran to help Monroe who was rolling across the ground, fighting with the other Blutbad, both of them snarling and snapping. No way to shoot the guy without risking shooting Monroe, so Nick reversed his Glock and hammered at the Icy Touch Blutbad’s head with the butt. The Blutbad howled and tried to twist away.

Nick reached between them with his free hand to try to get a grip on the Icy Touch Wesen—and a mostly feral Monroe bit his hand.

“Ow! Dammit, Monroe!” Nick said, snatching his hand back.

The submachine gun, compressed between them, went off—and Nick looked on with horror as blood splashed, bits of bone flew... Then he saw with relief that it wasn’t Monroe who’d been shot. The bullets had smashed up under the Icy Touch Blutbad’s jaw, and out through the top of his head.

Another gunshot made him turn—he saw Hank struggling with the Hasslich, his arms pinioned in the creature’s talons, gun firing uselessly into the ceiling.

Nick swung his gun hard, cracking the Hasslich in the head with all his strength.

The troll roared, shook his head, stunned, and Hank jerked his gun hand free and fired four times, point blank, into the Hasslich’s chest.

Nick sighed, as the troll staggered backwards, and fell. Another possible interrogation subject gone to meet the devil.

“Fellas, don’t shoot me, don’t shoot me, I didn’t want to do any of this stuff!” whimpered the man lying face down by the bricks of powder. Nick looked at him, saw his Drang-zorn appearance showing in his distress.

“Take it easy, no one’s gonna hurt you if you don’t resist,” Nick said. “What’s your name?”

“Doug. I mean—Douglas Zelinski.”

“Your hand’s bleeding, Nick,” Hank said, holstering his gun.

Nick looked at his left hand. There were only a couple of fang marks on it but Monroe had broken the skin.